Orion
by 1arigato
Summary: In the dimness and cold of a garage in Tennessee, Tony finds help not in a boy, but a white hooded individual who may or may not actually exist. After all, nothing is true, and everything is permitted. Starts in Iron Man 3. Rating may go up. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

"Sure, you can break into the garage."

Tony whipped around at the voice that cut through the silence of the garage's crisp, cold air like a knife in the wind. He wasn't sure where it had come from until, through the dimness of moonlight and street lamps' glow from outside, a grey figure sat up from the back seats of the car. Tony peered through the dark, distinguishing only a hoodie and a beard.

"Thanks," Tony said, and returned to finding a way to fix his suit.

"That was sarcasm, Stark."

Tony glanced at the hooded figure, briefly wondering if they knew each other. The figure had sat up to lean his - Tony knew the gender from the voice and the beard - arms on raised knees. Even in the dark, Tony could see an elaborate tattoo on the right arm.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," Tony said.

"Then we are both bad in expressing wit."

"It seems my reputation precedes me."

"Only at the bars where women go to rant."

Tony narrowed his eyes, if only to see better. The hooded figure made an amused noise in his throat.

"You can turn on a light, you know."

"Am I that predictable, or do you have some sort of natural night vision?"

"Yes."

Tony frowned and flipped on the lights before the stranger completely finished his ambiguous answer. Call him childish, but he wanted to hurt the stranger's eyes from the sudden change of light. When he looked, however, a hood shadowed the unknown male's eyes. Tch.

In the light, the grey hoodie turned bright white with some red lining. There seemed to be two watches - one at the wrist, the other closer to the elbow - on the male's left arm, but no clock face could be seen. Two random bands, then? A faded scar was light against the stranger's lips.

Tony turned back to getting the tools he needed.

"Just don't touch my stuff, and you won't have to witness my wit."

"Says the trespasser."

"I'll pay you once I'm done."

"Done dealing with the Mandarin?"

Tony turned to face the stranger with a subtle grab for a screwdriver, just in case. He made sure to keep it out of sight.

"What do you know of the Mandarin?"

The stranger scoffed. "I don't concern myself with low-level crime."

Even more suspicious. "What of high-level crime?"

"Oh, it's all opinion, I suppose. Some stuff SHIELD considers high-level can be low-level to others. And then 'assassin' can be scary to some."

"And not scary to others?"

"No. I mean even scarier to others. But when some people get really scared, they can become fearsome themselves. It's alright, I guess, if they played in their own backyard, but when they involved the world and its people, assassins needed more than just fear. It's those people who make their goals others' problems you really have to look out for. A feud between two groups becomes a global war."

"Played."

"Hm?"

"Past tense. That's what you started using after a point. After you said 'they.'"

"It's a pronoun."

"Not for you."

They stared at each other.

"All I want to do at the moment is to fix my suit, stop the Mandarin, and go home. I don't know what political or philosophical opinions you have, and frankly, I don't care. Can I do what I want, now?"

"I never said you couldn't."

When had the conversation become the stranger's? What tongue - Tony disliked people who could control their surroundings like that. This wasn't the time for dislike, though. Tony got the tools he needed and began fixing his suit. He kept his eye on his unnamed companion, but besides the talk and the hood, Tony's stranger was overall harmless. A painful growl squeezed itself into the cold air.

"Here."

Tony punched the sudden voice. He had gotten used to the stranger's presence without noticing and had thus stopped keeping an eye out. When his awareness caught up, his fist was in a hand and a tuna sandwich was being offered to him. The hooded stranger was trying to hold back a laugh. Tony wondered if the sandwich was poisoned, but his stomach didn't care.

"Tuna?" he asked.

"I was in the mood for it. Blame years of sailing."

"You've sailed?"

That was the first time Tony saw his stranger flustered.

"No. No, I have. Not! It's airplanes, now. Airplanes and cars and steel ships. Humans can fly now. Not like you, though. It's not like a Leap of Faith or the Iron Man suit."

"I'll just accept that tuna sandwich, thanks."

* * *

"PTSD. That's what they call it."

The snow was very cold, almost like space. The crater in the concrete was also like space - that is, the wormhole that nearly closed in on itself without Tony. It was all these things that set Tony off, he supposed. He wanted to glare at his bearded stranger, but he was too busy shivering from memories.

"Thanks, doc. I think I know what I'm suffering."

"And there's the wit."

Pepper. He needed Pepper. But she wouldn't pick up. Why wouldn't she pick up?

"Just rest a bit. The memories will pass soon enough. If they don't, you're crazy."

"Is that your wit?"

"No. I'm trying to be helpful by drawing on what I know."

"What do you know of PTSD?"

"Not much. Or too much. It's all opinion, I suppose. The stuff I'm worried about is the Bleeding Effect. Is that PTSD?"

"I'm no doctor."

Where was Bruce right now? Where was everyone while Tony was crouched in snowy weather with a stranger who wore his hood too often? It didn't matter. They didn't contact each other. Except when they wanted to. Maybe they were all suffering PTSD. The Battle for Manhattan was their little nightmare. Phil.

"_Calmati. So che la guerra è dura._"

Tony furrowed his eyebrows. "What did you say?"

He was suddenly aware of the snow, the burned outlines on the nearby walls, and two sets of footprints in the snow. His and the stranger's.

"I was trying to get you to calm down."

"No, what did you say?"

"Did you know that listening to music not in your language can help you calm down?"

"I'm not going to try that. I like English well enough. Did you just speak, eh, not English?"

"Music like that probably doesn't make you think."

"Where did you learn? What did you say?"

"Maybe that's why it's calming."

"What did you say?"

"I don't know what it's like to listen to music like that. Has your PTSD episode passed?"

When the rhythmic sound of his stranger's voice had invaded Tony's hearing, his inner turmoil had burned away as his ears and mind tried to catch up with what his stranger had said. Tony was pretty sure it hadn't been English. Since his stranger had said whatever he did while Tony was suffering an episode, Tony couldn't recall clearly if the sounds he heard weren't English or were only garbled interpretations of it because he wasn't paying attention.

"What are you going to do now?"

Tony got up from the snow. "I'm going to investigate that veteran's supposed suicide."

* * *

"How did you finish your guy so fast?" Tony complained.

His stranger was examining a bloody lip, but Tony was more annoyed at how his stranger's hoodie was still pristine white.

"I didn't. You just took a bloody long time."

"You're not British."

"We're all bloody. These two were weird, though. I stunned my guy with a stolen taser. Repeatedly."

"You didn't end him?"

"Can't. I don't think your woman's finished either."

"Sorry. All I can do right now is drop a water tower on her."

"Wit."

"Humour, actually."

"Where to now?"

"Home Depot. You're not coming."

"Maybe not with you, but it so happens that I need to restock on some stuff. Besides, how are you going to get there without a car?"

"You're going to use that rusty thing in the garage?"

"No, but I can hotwire cars."

"Stealing is illegal. But what do I care - let's go."

* * *

Home Depot was useful for finding the materials Tony needed for homemade weapons. With him wearing shades and his hood up, and his hooded stranger having a beard, Tony was positive the two of them looked sketchy, but frankly, he didn't care. What they bought wasn't too suspicious, anyhow - just seemingly random. Tony's companion was looking around most of the time. It felt casual at first, until Tony realised that his stranger was watching their back. Tony felt a glimmer of warmth at that. He wondered when he started referring to the hooded stranger as "his."

As Tony made his gear, the garage felt more homely. His stranger was making sandwiches with slices of eggplant and ground beef. He claimed he was in the mood for _mehshi,_ whatever that was. Tony thought it sounded sort of Middle Eastern. His stranger also claimed that the people who owned the house nearby were about to let the bread, eggplant, and beef spoil anyway. Tony realised his stranger was a trespasser like him.

"What brings you to sleep in someone else's car?"

"I was trying to get to South Dakota from New York. Took a detour to avoid unwanted attention."

"You're a criminal?" Tony figured. The smooth hotwire job, the easiness in which Tony could trust his stranger with an AIM agent, and the subtleness of..._something_ in the stranger's presence told Tony that he wasn't with a civilian.

"It's opinion, I suppose."

"You say that often."

His stranger was finished making his funny sandwiches. The silence wasn't telling Tony enough.

"You replied with 'opinion' when we spoke about high-level crime, PTSD, and criminality," Tony recalled. "You said you were coming from New York?"

His stranger shrugged with the ease of someone who knew his story would never be guessed. Tony suddenly felt as if the ground had disappeared from under him. Who was he with? Who was this stranger?

"The Battle of Manhattan-"

"I had nothing to do with that. I was a bartender then." The hooded male was quick to bite into his sandwich, as if trying to draw off unpleasant memories with the elaborate flavour of his food.

"Just tell me if you have ever sided with the Chitauri or was involved in any similar crime. Please." If his stranger wasn't his companion, then Tony didn't think he could trust anyone anymore.

"I have never done any of that."

The sandwich was put down, but the stranger hadn't met Tony's eyes as he was in deep thought. He suddenly grabbed a cutthroat razor and a can of shaving cream that was piled with other miscellaneous items, and he left the garage. Tony resumed making his homemade gear. His insides stirred again, but he didn't want to steal a sandwich from his stranger.

The bright-eyed man - with a scarred lip and a bright white jacket with the hood down - who walked in wasn't the beardy man who had left the garage. Tony was shocked to realise that his stranger was young, maybe in his early 20s. The talkative bits of his stranger reflected a teen's attitude, though. He observed his stranger's face, as if trying to burn the features into his memory. There was something about seeing the man in the hood that made Tony feel as if he were in on a secret. Later, Tony would realise his stranger was extending trust to him.

The man's eyes were meeting Tony's, and the billionaire wasn't sure what he was supposed to see. Young man his stranger may be, but Tony was looking into the eyes of someone who had lived three lifetimes. His stranger suddenly smiled, but without teeth.

"Are you done making your gear?"

Tony couldn't see the ancientness in his stranger anymore after the nameless man had smiled, and Tony wasn't sure which was the true identity of his stranger. From what he had observed, so far, his stranger was both very old and surprisingly young - he was timeless. Tony was relieved his stranger wasn't involved with the Battle of Manhattan except having been there. He had a companion.

"I'm going to Miami," Tony said. "Is everything prepared?"

"If your instructions were any good, then yes."

Tony packed his things. His stranger packed his sandwiches.

"I'm coming with you."

"Definitely not."

That was the first time they were close to an argument. Even the talk about Chitauri wasn't like this - more of procedure for Tony, if anything.

"This isn't your problem. Besides, South Dakota's waiting for you."

"I don't think anyone will be there, though. Last I heard, they were flushed out."

"By what?"

"It depends."

"On my opinion?"

"On what you know."

His stranger handed him a ziplock bag of sandwiches for the trip. Tony hoped they were tuna rather than his stranger's eggplant-beef concoction.

"To Miami," Tony toasted with the bag. His stranger smiled, his youth more prominent with the boy-next-door charming, natural smile.

"To Miami," he toasted.

* * *

Tony felt self-conscious as he infiltrated the estate headquarters. He welcomed the Miami weather, but after he had taken down the men guarding the front lawn, he then realised his stranger was smiling. Apparently he had found it amusing that Tony was doing infiltration in a hood.

"It's like I'm with a brother," his stranger had said.

"Blood-related?"

"Not always. The only blood-related brother I can recall is Frederico, and he wasn't quite official yet. The closest I can think of is Clay, and we're only related by distant relatives."

Tony didn't mind his companion's unusual talk. They were kindred spirits in that they had suffered Manhattan, had PTSD, and weren't liked by everyone, and not bothered by it. His companion wasn't crazy - at least, Tony believed so. He felt as if if he had _just_ the right key, he could find the messages and information in his companion's speech. To anyone else who wouldn't think beyond the common or the normal, Tony's companion was insane. He wasn't. He was just silent on personal - maybe political - matters without having to hold his tongue.

Tony's companion easily cleaned up the spots Tony missed, but overall, the infiltration felt like a learning experience for Tony. He wondered why his companion was trying to put some training into the situation. If it was anything like Home Depot, then it was because his companion cared for him. Tony wondered how he could repay his companion, but he put the thought on the backburner as he stole deeper into the estate.

"I will face the Mandarin alone."

"What if the Mandarin has combat experience? You'll need an extra hand."

Tony made a rough sound in his throat, reminded that he didn't know his companion's name.

"Just leave it to me, okay? This guy is the reason my friend Happy is in the hospital. Don't frown - this won't take long. Go find yourself a cup of tea or something. He seems loaded enough."

His companion disappeared with a subtle frown into the folds of the rooms like white mist. Tony wouldn't be surprised people could fear whatever word could describe his companion, if there was one. Natalia-sha or whatever and Legolas could only _dream_ of moving like Tony's companion. His lips twitched at the thought.

* * *

He should have insisted for his companion to stay with him.

At the moment, chained to a bed frame under the watchful eye of two muscled men, Tony couldn't think of a better time his companion could materialise and save him from his predicament. If the timed technologies back in Tennessee worked as he planned, he would be getting his suit soon enough, but he was also silently worried for his companion. Where had he gone?

"Now! How about...now!"

The muscled men were laughing at him. Tony wondered where his suit was so he could pound their faces in.

"Now! Now?" Tony frowned. "You owe me a watch, by the way. It was limited edition. From the sidewalk near the gutter and everything."

"A billionaire can't afford a watch?"

"Not when he's presumed dead by the world. And my companion wouldn't give me either of his. Claimed they weren't watches. I, personally, wouldn't wear two random bands in odd places. No style."

A rustle and low thump drew Tony and his guards' eyes to a hallway. His guards didn't even finish turning when two bullets went into their heads. Two more bullets freed Tony from the bed frame.

"There will be more men coming in."

"I've taken care of them. No style, huh?"

The Iron Man suit flew in and constructed itself on Tony piece by piece.

"When you can make a suit like this, you can talk to me about style."

"I prefer my hoodie and my 'watches,' thanks. They're not watches, by the way. They're part of…they are what tie my weapon to my arm."

"What is your weapon?"

"It's a matter of opinion."

They were running through the estate, now, taking down whatever AIM agents popped up.

"I realised something."

"Hm?"

"You mention opinion when you're trying not to tell me something - like, something important. PTSD, crime, people in SD flushed out by something-" Tony glanced at his companion, "-or someones — maybe the people you were referring to earlier as 'they' — and now a mysterious weapon that I have yet to fully see and that you always have by your side. Are you a runaway SHIELD agent? An enemy of SHIELD? Nothing you say will surprise me, I promise."

"I'd love to share my story, _fratello,_ but the less you know, the safer you are."

"What did you say? What word was that?"

"Tony!"

It was Rhodey. When Tony looked over his shoulder, his hooded companion was gone.

"Tony, the President-"

"Yeah, hold on. I have to gather myself for a moment. I don't know if I've been around a ghost this entire time. What does fratello mean?"

"Brother. I took Italian in college, remember? Why are you asking me this?"

"Italian?"

"Yes! Tony, are you alright?"

"Yeah. When we're done, I'm going to do some global hacking for someone's identity. Dead or alive."

* * *

**A/N: This was written last year when Iron Man 3 came out, but I never got around to posting it until seeing _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ where I found drive for AC crossovers into the Marvel movieverse again. The writing style here was largely influenced by modern/postmodernist Ernest Hemingway's _A Farewell to Arms_; the idea was based on writing only the physical occurances of events and luring the reader into reading between the lines. I hope you liked this fic so far!**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow, I'm floored by all the positive reviews! Thanks to those, here's another chapter!

* * *

Tony ignored Pepper.

"He said it's starting to get out of hand."

Maybe his stranger was sixty years old?

"Tony."

Tap. Tap-tap-swipe. Seventy years old? Scroll. Scroll.

"I'm not finding the guy _anywhere_," Tony replied. "Social security. Bartending records all over the world. Not even the government satellites are helping."

"Satellites Director Fury is sternly telling you to stop abusing." Pepper gestured to _his_ texts, on _his_ phone, that _he_ had tossed in the trash bin. Couldn't she tell that he didn't want to hear the usual lectures from Fury?

"I can't even describe his age range accurately." Tony picked up whatever hand food Pepper had set near him and bit into it.

"Tony?" Pepper suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Tony chewed slowly and swallowed. Looking back on the moment, he wouldn't remember if he had dazedly set the sandwich down or had stared at it. Only the taste of tuna was definite.

"Maybe you should take a break," Pepper suggested. "A real one. Don't worry about the new house's blueprints, or cleaning up after the AIM issue." Tony didn't tell her that he had already completed both in his attempt to get his mind off of searching for his ghost's identity. "We can go to the Smithsonian if you want a little challenge; stuff not related to the sciences isn't exactly your forte."

Searching for his ghost was already a challenge.

"Come on, tuna sandwich down." Pepper moved like a therapist. "Off to the Smithsonian."

* * *

Sam Wilson's breaths were even as he jogged around the park's pool, eyes ahead and mind's eye on his surroundings. Early in the morning, the park had only the distant white noise of traffic — normal, today. As far as Sam could tell, though. He wasn't as familiar with urban, non-military surroundings like most of his batch mates from the Farm who were deployed to such areas after training.

"On your left."

A solid figure blew past Sam, who watched it find the corner of the pool in only seconds. Could that be called jogging?

"On your left."

Sam had barely started turning the corner when he was passed again.

"I know, I know. You don't have to say it!"

"On your left."

The instances repeated a few more times until Sam finished his daily jog and collapsed under a tree to take a swig from his water bottle. The blonde man who had passed Sam several times approached him with a smile — Steve Rogers, he said, though Sam didn't have to be told twice who his jogging partner was. Sam offered his own name, and they chatted for a while, until a Mustang pulled up and Captain America joined the red-haired woman driving it. Sam waved in greeting to her before the car drove off, and his arm and smile slowly dropped when it was out of sight.

Nineteen hidden objects on her person. Twelve of which Sam easily identified as weaponry, another five as situational tools like wire, and the last three unfamiliar and most likely hi-tech.

Technically, Sam was retired from his undercover mission in Afghanistan where he was to share as much intel of Project Falcon with the Brotherhood as possible. When the project was abandoned, and Sam's fellow undercover Assassin dead, Sam was relocated to D.C. for a milder mission: maintain a safehouse. Milder or not, Sam was still an Assassin, and the woman had a threat level that made Sam refocus on his surroundings — a knee-jerk response to having confronted a threat.

That was how he noticed the white-hooded figure among the trees, staring straight at him.

A complete stranger and _possibly_ a stalker. Naturally, Sam approached. "I don't have money."

"And I don't have a finger."

"I'm…sorry?"

"The _ring_ finger, novice." It was a common throwaway insult back in the Farm and supposedly among others who had also grown up in the Brotherhood. Sam stared. A ring finger was bent hidden in a palm.

"Oh," Sam recovered. "Then I'm _not_ sorry."

"I should take yours."

"No, I'm listening."

The hooded stranger paused. Sam rose his brows and waited through full eye contact and the irritated but amused twitch of a frown until the hooded stranger continued at no sign of interruption. "I'm sorry to say that Rogers is not the only blonde time-traveller you're going to meet this week."

Did Thor count as a time-traveller? But the hooded man had said he was "sorry" where the Asgardian's help would have been welcomed.

"Relax, the blondie you're going to meet isn't an enemy. He's not a fan of William Miles, however, so try not to praise the Mentor in his presence."

"Even Assassins are human," Sam replied honestly. "Miles is an effective teacher and good leader for a _de facto_ Mentor, but he is hardly more praise-worthy than the next hard-working Assassin." Everyone had an important role, regardless of how much - or how little - acknowledgement they received.

The hooded man smirked. "That character of yours is why I chose you for this mission. Go on, now." He swept his hand. "I'm sure Clay will be thrilled to meet you."

Was this hooded assassin an informant? Sam had learned nothing but a name and an impossibility. Sure, even Captain America had nothing on ice, but how forgiving was ice to produce another "time-traveller," anyway? Or more accurately, how cruel?

"And where am I to meet this Clay?" Sam tossed into the air a mid-stride away from the trees. When silence stretched, Sam turned back, only to see the hooded man gone.

Sam waited in his counselling sessions and morning jogs and everyday meals for a blonde time-traveller to show up with assassin business in his agenda, and he waited patiently. Really. But patience became overrated when the unlikelihood of the _wrong_ blonde time-traveller with assassin business and a literal assassin - no capital A - coming for Sam came knocking on his back door. That was when Sam decided to abandon safehouse maintenance until he would retire - again. Patience did not get him metal wings, after all.

* * *

"The good-looking guy in shades at your ten o'clock."

The Hydra-planted Shield agent turned.

"Your other ten o'clock."

Their eyes met. Sam smiled and waved. "Grey car, two spaces down. You and I are gonna take a ride."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because that tie looks really expensive, and I'd _hate_ to mess it up." The red laser of a sniper winked into existence, and the double agent paled with fury and fear. Romanoff directed the man away as planned, and Sam sipped the last of his coffee. He was still smiling. "Man, I miss field work." Comms cut off as Romanoff and the Hydra plant met Rogers at the rooftop, leaving Sam to talk to radio static.

"Wilson to Clay."

The response was immediate. "Don't just throw names around in radio frequencies!"

It worked. How? Coincidence? No one could listen to every radio wavelength possible and all at the same time. "I've been waiting for you," Sam said.

"I'm not for hire, and don't say my name again."

"I don't have money." Sam blinked, then remembered he was on the street. "I, uh, don't have a finger either?"

The whitenoise of keys clicking away vanished under blanker silence. Sam checked his earpiece to find it still fully functional.

"An Assassin from the Farm?"

Hm. So the hooded contact had put it lightly when he had said that the ally was not a "fan" of William Miles. Sam was speaking to quite the impressive growl.

"Yes, sir." Did this ally count as a sir? He sounded like he needed buttering up, so Sam stuck with the honorific.

"Humph! Military, from what I can tell - and William had stuck you with…safehouse duty?"

Sam sensed that the topic could go any which way, and he steered the conversation back to safer waters. "I requested a change of scenery after a little too much action on the front lines, sir. Now I help soldiers at home, and the National Mall is a pleasant place to jog."

"Military but presently content," the voice on the line added. "Like Ezio in his old age, but there are still winds you haven't tackled, and you know it." Was this a reference to his metal wings? Keys clicked away. "Who sent you to me? I might beat him up or hug him."

Sam didn't think the latter was possible from the blunt character of the voice on the line, which made the familiar, contradictory claim all the more unusual. He wanted to smile.

"A contact. He had a white hood and scarred lip."

Muttered swears, peppered with Italic cousins.

"Sir?"

"I _will_ beat him up. And hug him," the voice amended.

* * *

Clay ran technical support – not a lot, as the hacker seemed busy with other projects. Just enough to make the mission with Captain America less suicidal. Sam felt relief that he and the group weren't attacked by drones. The Hydra-planted Strike team couldn't run covert assassinations on them either – not with hyper-aware Sam and the digitally elusive Clay involved – so the attack in broad daylight was not altogether unexpected, but the boldness only reminded Sam why Assassins had less collateral damage in their history than Templars. Hide in plain sight, and all that.

He shouldn't have been surprised, however, that the Templars had learned to do the same.

"Sam?"

In an underground hidey-hole filled with the only faithful Shield agents who could lend a hand on the field, Sam found himself in the middle of a war he had been raised only all his life for. The enemy had the boldness to print their Latin motto across _medicine bottles. _Why couldn't a Nazi extremist group be another mask?

"Sam?" Steve asked again in Sam's silence. Meanwhile, Clay's knowing silence over their private line confirmed Sam's realisation.

"Hydra has many heads," Sam whispered. Abstergo Industries, Abstergo Entertainment, Shield….

All legit organisations. All different faces of one body.

"_Then let's _slice and dice_ the Greek porn monster._"

Everyone jumped at the sardonic voice in their ear. Fury interrogated after Clay's purpose while the paranoid hacker responded back with equal wit, establishing himself as simply a tech-smart Hydra hater while making the stone-faced Fury crack a smile. With injuries treated and a plan thrown together, the group set out — safely oblivious to the overwhelmingly greater picture of the Templar-Assassin war, but with a field Assassin and a faceless hacker on their side.

Sam wanted to beat up and hug Clay.

* * *

"Ever seen the movie Eagle Eye?"

"Hydra plant on your right, Spangles. Yes, and don't compare me to that all-seeing psychotic lady machine."

Clay's assistance was like having a constant bird's eye view of the situation, but in Steve's experience, such omniscience required a team of hands-on surveillance. The entire time they'd been on line together, however, Steve had only ever heard one pair of hands on a keyboard from Clay's end. Did Clay have experience with AIs like Jarvis? What gave the sharp-tongued hacker a need to surpass viruses and programs to have advanced in hacking to this extent?

"Are you sure you're not a product of Stark's?" Steve jested.

"I hope that was a joke. I'm a hundred times smarter than him. Exit in twenty feet."

Steve shared an amused look with Sam before running twenty feet onto thin air. He didn't need a parachute to land onto the helicarrier below without breaking a sweat. Sam followed suit just in time for a missile to blast a metal wing off.

"Sam!"

"Focus, Spangles! Your mission is the control card."

Bucky's appearance only emphasised Clay's order, and Steve hesitantly dashed into the helicarrier's control centre upon a breathless half-reassurance, half-order from Sam over the communications line. A second time that week, Sam was left alone to talk to radio static. He crashed hard onto the side of the helicarrier and already felt himself slipping with gravity, unforgiving concrete and a debris-polluted lake below him. Around the same time Sam pushed away vertigo, he shrugged off the remains of his Falcon pack.

But he didn't need metal wings to fly.

The comm silence from Clay seemed to agree. So Sam stopped trying to anchor himself into the helicarrier. He calmly spread his arms and let himself slip into a hundred-metre drop. The lake was his haystack.

* * *

"We both know what you truly are," Rumlow laughed.

Sam shut him up with an elbow strike before he ducked and spun from a counter-attack, snapped a leg out, and jumped back up into a ready stance, all in the blink of an eye. The Hydra plant spat some blood as he recovered with fists lazily raised, depth perception skewed for a moment. Sam flicked a switchblade free.

"You guys still bringing blades to a gun fight?" Rumlow jabbed. Sam jabbed back with his switchblade.

They fought hard and dirty, fists and bullets flying. It felt like only seconds of fast-paced fighting until Sam threw a mean punch just in time to catch one, and the two struggled at a standstill as a helicarrier dipped into sight behind the Hydra operative like a large whale and dazedly sailed for the building at an angle.

"_I would start running now, Samuel,_" Clay's voice sounded over Sam's earpiece.

"Kind of busy!" Sam grunted.

"Busy saying your last words?" Rumlow grunted out as neither man gave an inch. Sam eyed his switchblade near his foot and grunted back.

"Yeah. Rest in _pieces._"

The blade slipped onto Sam's foot with a kick and jumped up with another. Rumlow only had time to widen his eyes before Sam twisted their positions, caught the weapon in his teeth, and slid into Rumlow's defence to sink the blade into the Templar's neck. Sam stepped back and started running. Rumlow angrily shouted after Sam's cowardice with a wet cough just as the falling helicarrier crashed through the wall behind him. Sam didn't even have time to conduct a Leap of Faith until he was already falling into the helicopter Hill had piloted as their getaway ride, Natasha snatching Sam with assassin reflexes before he could fall out the other open door of the helicopter.

Life for Hydra ran downhill after that.

The political mess after made Sam laugh in that he didn't have to help with the clean up as he wasn't a - former - Shield operative and was officially only a safehouse keeper for the Brotherhood. The latter changed under William Miles's reevaluation of Sam's effectiveness on the field, however, and the Mentor's order passed down the chain of command quickly enough for Sam to receive orders to participate in the underground clean up of Hydra the same time Steve requested help in a "missing persons case" aka Bucky Barnes. Clay broke off communications soon after the Triskelion mission, their time together now up, but Sam could handle covert work. He was bred for it, after all.

* * *

"Now with Shield disbanded, I can't hack into Shield's useful servers to find what I want."

"I'm…sorry?" Steve gave Tony a confused look. "What is it you're searching for?"

"A ghost, apparently," Pepper supplied.

"I just fought one. A winter soldier. He was technically a ghostly assassin," Steve rambled. The three of them and Natasha stood among a small crowd about to witness the unveiling of recently discovered works of ancient art. Steve and Natasha had been wandering the Smithsonian for a moment of rest when they had stumbled upon the event. Least to say, Steve's plaid shirt and baseball cap failed to divert several eyes, and the previously small crowd had grown exponentially.

"What did you just say?" Tony asked over the babble of the crowd, serious in contrast. Steve blinked.

"Winter soldier; it was the codename Shield gave Bucky when he was under Hydra's influence."

"He might still be," Natasha muttered.

"No. After that," Tony insisted.

"Ghostly assassin?" Steve repeated.

"Assassin…. He mentioned it once."

"'He?'"

"Tony's ghost," Pepper supplied. The crowd noise rose as the ancient works were unveiled. Steve had to speak louder.

"Is he real?"

Tony couldn't hear him. Not over the pounding of his heart.

_"Blame years of sailing." "Calmati. So che la guerra è dura." "…Fratello…." "Brother. I took Italian in college, remember?" "…someone's identity. Dead or alive." _

It was him. Staring back out from the faded sketch paper, smirking eyes and a scarred lip, a brush of stubble. Despite the time difference, he still wore a hood. Tony had no doubt the attire had been white. The dissimilarities outnumbered the similarities – extravagant clothing of wealth in Renaissance times, longer hair, a different air about the man; Leonardo Da Vinci's signature even sat on the corner of the paper, marking the hint of a friendship. But the facial structure and the scar were undeniable. Pepper's gasp was drowned by Tony's whisper.

"Once upon a time," Tony heard himself say, "he was real."

* * *

A/N: I'm cruel, I know, but I've always wanted someone to mistake Desmond and one of his ancestors – or all of them – for one another. 'Tis a pity Tony is the one to do so. One can only imagine the effects of such misidentification spreading, especially through the Avengers… ;)

Woah, I wasn't expecting my idea dump to get a lot of positive attention! This chapter is mostly just drabble of when I was writing an _Assassin's Creed_ version of _The Winter Soldier_ while watching the movie, but the Tony parts are my more thought-out ideas. I don't know, writing Desmond and Tony comes more naturally to me, but I couldn't imagine Desmond involving himself in the events of TWS unless it would help in the fight against Juno. Hydra is an extremist branch of the Templar Order, but isn't involved with Juno, so I left that mission to Clay and Sam. Hopefully **more Desmond and Tony!** next)! Now I have to watch Avengers 2….

As some people are asking, I'm going to let you guys know I don't write romance. Also, keep the positive reviews coming, guys! I never would have found the drive to publish another chapter if I hadn't looked at this fic's reviews. You guys are awesome!


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